How to Destroy a Friendship in One Easy Lesson or Off With Their Steering Wheels

This post is a direct order from another of the many people that totally control my life. My daughter threatened to boycott my blog if I didn't tell you the story of the magic disappearing car from my days in the service. It is the story of the American male. Of friendship, betrayal, love, lust (well, OK no love and definitely no lust), danger, intrigue and finally tragedy. It is a story, like so many otheres, with heroes and villains, saints and sinners, and very nearly, Smith and Wesson. Our story takes place in 1971 on the war torn shores of Pensacola, Florida, motto "If the navy ever leaves we're screwed." 1971 was a year of golden memories. I wish I could remember them. Well, I can remember just enough to do some real damage.

In an earlier post (the last one, I believe) I mentioned in the early 1970's I found myself in the U. S. Marine Corps, and true to the long line of patriotic military men in my family I volunteered for the service. When I signed up my recruiter promised excitement, travel, great career training and a uniform guaranteed to melt the bloomers off any mid-western lass of my choosing. I of course, recieved none of it, and, were it not for the fact that my number in the draft was 35, I might have complained to someone.

After nine fun-filled, leisurely weeks at the Parris Island Marine Corps Recruit Resort and Spa, I learned that I had been chosen for "special" training. We learned all of this in one of our final meetings in the barracks with the DI's who told everyone what their Marine jobs would be. I was assigned to something called the Naval Security Group, with training to be held at the Naval Communications Training Center (NCTC, pronounced "nitsy titsy" by the Mensa candidates in our platoon). The other 75 privates got "surprise" the infantry, or grunt duty. I was also told I would need a security clearance which consisted of a thorough, detailed and expensive FBI investigation of my past to make sure I wasn't a commie or "gook sympathizer" according to my DI. I found out later that the investigation consisted of a couple of Lake County agents (imagine the agent's excitement at that duty) going around and asking several of my neighbors what kind of person I was. Thankfully they all lied and I got in. I don't shoot a rifle well.

My DI wasn't too sure, but he figured that I was going to become an investigator for the Navy and would come back and investigate him for abusing privates (in a nice way, I mean) and with that the DI laughed and then the rest of us realized we could laugh too. That DI, what a great kidder. Actually it turned out it was a job in communications and cryptology and fortunately for me, it meant not going to 'Nam.

Anyway, back to our real story. I arrived at the base in Pensacola at the same time as some other privates who had gotten the same designation and had gone through boot camp the same time as I did, but in different platoons. I'm not sure why, but I became pretty good friends with a guy from "Bah-ston" after awhile and we took to going into town and partying on occaision at the places that tolerated military personnel. His name is Bob Duggan and he had another buddy from his own platoon at Parris Island he had gotten to know from the New England area named James Malgano, I believe it was. They had become pretty good buddies at boot camp and I knew virtually no one, so was happy to hang out with some of those guys. Bob and James got to be so close that they actually decided to split the cost of a car together, so that they would be better able to get around, as there was very little (by very little I mean none)in the way of public transportation.

They bought a great car. It was a cool looking, I would say 1964 or 65 yellow Chevy Nova with black racing stripes, jacked up rear end, four speed stick on the floor and a customized wood grain steering wheel. It also had black intereior and a custom 8 track stereo system. In short it was "one sweet ride."

I would say that the amiability of negotiations for scheduling use of the car lasted about 3 nanoseconds. And within days the two virtually despised each other, threatened physical violence and whose greetings in passing consisted solely of four letter words.

Then things got rough. In order to try and control the car and keep the other from driving it, they took to hiding various small but necessary components to the engine. Things like the distributor cap or the pistons would mysteriously vanish only to magically reappear when the culprit wanted the car. This was pretty common as our training consisted of working swing shifts at the communications center and Bob and James were on different shifts (Another good reason for getting the car together right? No conflicts).

One day Bob and I decided to get away from the Pensacola area, where the women treated military guys like most people treat lepers, only from a greater distance. We lit upon the bright idea of driving to Panama City, a small resort area maybe 100 miles down the road on the Florida panhandle. We decided to go that very weekend as we were both scheduled to have our 72 hours off work come up on that Friday. Now, when Friday arrived, I had to work later than Duggan and so he spent the time waiting for me, doing something constructive, like getting liquored up at the local nosepaint emporium. So he was in peak driving condition around 11:00 p.m. when we finally got together to set out for paradise. I, being the sober one for a change might have volunteered to drive, but these were different times. Things were a little more lax about DUIs and I was young, immortal and stupid. So when Bob told me he was able to drive, I felt like I was back in my mother's arms.

Now relations between Duggan and Molgano had, by this time, reached a level akin to the Arab-Israeli conflict, only more civil and when Bob and I got into the car that night, we breathed a sigh of relief as the mighty Chevrolet 4 cylinder purred to life when Bob turned the key in the ignition. Bob got her into reverse in a reasonable amount of time, turned to look out the rear window so he could back out and slowly inched backward turning the steering wheel to maneuver out of his parking spot. He had gone about 3 nano inches when the beautiful, wood grained, cusomized steering wheel came off of the column and into his left hand. Turning back to face the front, Bob stared uncomprehendingly at this foreign object that had materialized, now in both of his hands. Time froze, somewhere CSN&Y sang "Teach your children well...", I think it was the 8 track but couldn't be certain, as we both gaped at the now useless steering wheel clutched in Bob's hands. After what seemed an eternity, Bob's face drained of color, his rage visibly building, now squeezed the wheel in a death grip, until finally as the tension inside the car reached its zenith, certain events followed,which must have happened in a heartbeat, but seemed to evolve in slow motion at the time

An enraged Duggan, raised his right fist, preaparing to pound it on the dash. He slowly raised that fist, taking deliberate aim and screaming, "That (insert very bad word indeed) Molgano. And as he screamed he launched that fist toward the dashboard. Now, I think I mentioned earlier that Bob had spent the better part of the prior 3 or 4 hours constructively consuming as much of the local hooch as possible, with the consequent result that his descending fist completely missed the dash board, but squarely found the tape in the 8 track player and we both gaped anew as bits of plastic and strands of magnetic tape flew in a thousand directions inside the little yellow nova likes something out of a Sam Peckinpah movie.


Now it gets funny. As we sat there in now stunned silence, the realization that the lack of a steering wheel might make driving anywhere a tad tricky, I uttered the words that would become a portent of the mechanical and technical disasters that would plague me the rest of my adult life, when I said, hopefully "No wait, I can fix it...". Now remember... I'M the sober one!

Such is my mania to get away from the brutal boredom that is a military base in the early 1970's I began scheming. My hillbilly problem solving brain ,with smoke literally coming out of my ears from the strain, hit upon a solution brilliant in its simplicity. "I'll tie it back onto the steering column," I proudly announced.

By now, Duggan, who had been utterly drained by his explosion of rage and his gargantuan effort to take in the carnage that had once been his pride and joy, could only nod weakly as though this solution was not only obvious but sound. Such are the ravages of alcohol. At this point the plot ran into a small snag. What do I tie the steering wheel onto the column WITH? No problems, mate, I'll just use my handy dandy t-shirt. Yeah, that's the ticket. And so, after several trial and error attempts, I finally had the wheel tied to the three chrome spokes attached to the column, somewhat securely. By this time, Bob had changed to the passenger side and was passing the time in a coma. It was roughly 4:00 a.m. and still dark by the time we finally hit the road and set out for pristine, x only chromosome laden, civilian shores of Panama City.


All things considered, I would have to say the drive went pretty smoothly. For about 30 miles or so. I was driving east down a stretch of some road at about 50 mph when, SURPRISE, the steering wheel comes off the column into my hands. With cat like dexterity I immediately dropped the wheel into my lap, a strand of t-shirt still tied to the wheel on one end and the spoke of the column at the other. Normally I don't think this would have been a problem except, that because of the configuration of the Nova's interior and its accessories, the wheel became pinned between my legs, and no amount of struggling, cursing or pleading to God above could budge it. I am thinking that Mr. Duggan was still napping, but I'm not sure as I struggled with the wheel, feverishly tried to direct the car with my knees (no easy task I want to tell ya!) while trying to gauge my immediate topographical options. Fortunately, that particular stretch of Florida highway was relatively straight and though the car drifted to the right slightly, I was able, by some miracle or the grace of God to coast to a stop to the side of that highway. Thankfully there had been no traffic, oncoming or following, it being very early in the morning.

That is the last I remember of our attempt to reach Panama City, as the ravages of time and maybe a couple of beverages have erased any memory of getting back to base at Pensacola. We must have tied the wheel back in place or rigged it up somehow to get the Nova back. I know this because several days later, I had borrowed the car (Duggan and Molgano were fast losing interest in the magic disappearing Nova and gladly loaned me the keys) to go into town to see the newest Woody Allen movie "Play It Again, Sam". Whilst I was making a left turn across oncoming traffic, guess what? The steering wheel again came of in my hand, but this time since I had the wheel fully turned the left when it happened, the car essentially circled continuously in and out of traffic through a gas station back onto the road and back into the gas station before I could reach the brake. Having finally learned my lesson (you can only fool a marine four or five times) I parked the Nova in an adjacent lot and went to the movie.

I never saw the Nova again, or what was left of it, and that suited me just fine. It may still be sitting on some corner lot in Downtown Pensacola for all I know, and now being called "Retro Art". Maybe Bob remembers, I did copy him on the blog. Last I heard of Molgano, he was trying to become a republican lobbyist for General Motors.

I hope you're happy Melanie. You certainly have become quite sadistic since you took up "Roller Derby". Be careful out there don't skate over any land mines or anything.

Love
Dad